Page 32 of The First Gentleman

Through his scope, Doohan follows Wilson as he stands up and staggers back to his car.

The question is, what’s Wilson doing here in the first place? And whose feathers did he just ruffle? What does this pissant joint in a shit-ass corner of Rhode Island have to do with Cole Wright’s shady past?

It’s a golden opportunity. Wilson is in a weakened state. With a little encouragement, he’d probably start blabbing the whole story and give up all his leads.

But those are not Doohan’s orders.

Observe and report.

He watches as Wilson pulls open his car door and slides inside. The engine starts up.

Doohan gets to his feet and heads for his own vehicle.

Where’s this preppy punching bag going next?

CHAPTER

26

Outside Hanover, New Hampshire

After the phone call with Ellen Layton, I get back into Garrett’s Subaru and start heading south on I-91. Garrett and I agreed to meet up tonight back home in Connecticut.

I try calling Garrett. No good. His phone must be on DND.

The traffic starts moving. Finally.

My phone rings on the dash. Boston area code, but I don’t recognize the number. I accept the call. “Hello, this is Brea.”

Static. “Hello?” More static. Then: “Piece-of-shit phone… hello, is this Brea Cooke?” A woman’s voice, agitated.

“Yes!” I’m shouting in the car now. “Who is this?”

The woman shouts back, “This is Teresa Bonanno! Suzanne’s sister!”

I check my rearview and swing into the right lane. “Hold on, Teresa!” I spot a gas station off the next exit. “Give me a few seconds.” I pull into a parking space and turn off the engine. “Teresa, I’m here. What’s up?”

“I got something for you,” she says. “You know Amber? The girl who Suzanne was gonna move in with before she went away?”

“Right. Amber. What about her?”

“Well, her name’s not Amber anymore. But she’s back in Boston. I know where she works.”

Teresa sounds relatively coherent, if a little edgy. And this seems like a terrific lead. I grab a pad and pen out of the center console. “Go ahead, Teresa. I’m ready.”

“Hold on, now,” says Teresa. “Finding isn’t giving. If you want the information, it’s gonna cost you five hundred bucks. You give me that, I’ll give you the name.”

Right. And violate a basic rule of journalism. I can practically feel my Ethics in Communications professor staring at me from the car’s back seat. “Teresa. You know we can’t pay for information. It would damage our credibility. And yours too.”

Teresa says, her voice steely, “I need that money, Brea. And you need that name.”

I rack my brain, trying to find a way to get her to give me the name. Then I flash on a detail from my initial research. “Teresa, I read that the New England Patriots offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information that led to the arrest of the person responsible for your sister’s disappearance.”

The phone is fumbled, then Teresa is back. “They did? Really? That offer still good?”

Who knows? I’m honestly just spitballing now, throwing stuff out there, hoping something will stick. “You tell me, Teresa—do you think the Patriots, noble citizens of New England that they are, would renege on an offer like that? About one of their own cheerleaders?”

Frankly, I don’t know what the Patriots would do, but it’s enough to convince Teresa.

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